


Between Snow and Golden Sky

by Anonymous



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Erotic Poetry, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, My attempt at Homare’s erotic poetry anyway, Non-Penetrative Sex, Schmoop, they’re stupidly in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Homare fails to write a poem about Azuma. Azuma assists.
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Yukishiro Azuma
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26
Collections: Anonymous





	Between Snow and Golden Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not a poet I only write prose please be gentle with me

_Between snow and golden sky_

_Your arms the tender snowdrift— your lips the rosy clouds_

_Your warmth perfect— your heart endless_

_Upon my lips, your name, and a wish your lips would be the same,_

_I seek, bewildered, again and again, lost without you, found within you,_

_Burning, yearning, returning and returning,_

_Ah, for nothing but a kiss from you, to what lengths would I go,_

_I no longer know_

_Ah, to be held by you, to learn you and in turn be learned_

_Would I be known by you_

_Ah, to be beheld by you, my shame, my pride, the fear of being known,_

_Fain would I be known by you_

_Your gaze the sun which warms me, from which I cannot look away,_

_Would I that never came the day_

_The snow timeless— the dawn endless_

_Your_

“Homare, darling,” Azuma murmurs, touching his shoulder. “You have no idea how touched, and flattered, I am that the first thing you want to do is go write about me.”

Homare sits up at his desk, the pen stilling in his hand. The instincts to be cross at being interrupted while writing and not to be snappy with his lover (especially right now) fight briefly in him, and the latter wins.

“But?” He prompts, turning to see the glorious sight of Azuma, draped in nothing but the crimson coverlet, hair still a little disheveled, smiling indulgently down at him.

“But is it impossible for you to do it in bed?” He asks softly, and puts on his most heartrendingly gentle pleading face. “I wasn’t ready to let you out of my arms yet.”

Homare is weak to that sort of thing. Azuma knows he’s weak to it, and Homare knows he knows. It doesn’t stop working on him just because he knows it’s on purpose. He doesn’t usually write in bed, because the risk of getting ink on his Egyptian cotton sheets would be too great to bear, and the graphite dust from a pencil nearly as bad, but how is he supposed to refuse?

He sighs theatrically anyway. “Oh, of course, if you insist. But I won’t be distracted, you understand?” He attempts to sound stern as he stands, folding the notebook open. Azuma giggles in response and leans up to give him a peck on the lips.

“I understand,” He says solemnly, but his eyes still sparkle with amusement as he heads back to the ladder.

Hanging his robe off the railing and settling back against the pillows, he allows Azuma to nestle into his side, arm around his waist and head resting on his shoulder, before propping the notebook on his knee and poising the pen to begin again. He remembers what he was planning to write before he was interrupted, of course, but perhaps this change of situation will even imbue him with new inspiration. He finds it important to keep an open mind with these things.

_Your beauty divine, intransient, inherent._

_The glory of the dawn does not depend upon the day—_

_It is constant and yet ever changing_

_~~Your~~ Each breath from your lips the same, each breath a wonder anew_

_Such is the wonder that ~~breathes~~ lives within you_

_Oh, to feel your breath across my skin,_

_And feel that it should open up to let you in_

_Oh, to hear my name upon your lips,_

_Shaped as if you like the taste of it._

True to his word, Azuma has been completely silent since they returned to the bed, but it’s starting to seem like Azuma doesn’t need to say anything to distract him. The slow breaths beside him, the soft hair tickling his neck, and above all the warmth of Azuma’s smooth skin pressed against his side from shoulder to thigh are all making it difficult to entirely focus on writing. Or rather, he _is_ constantly finding new inspiration, but it’s for short phrases that don’t go anywhere, that just distract him from the current thread of the poem. He’s off his game, he can tell that much, it’s so rare that he ever needs to cross a word out and now he’s doing it twice in quite a short passage? This is truly not ideal. He glances at Azuma’s face, and his heart squeezes at the sight of him, seemingly already fast asleep on Homare’s shoulder, his face exquisite in repose. No, no, moving back to the desk is not an option, either.

He gets down a few more lines, painfully slowly, but none of them are particularly good. He decides to start following his whims and just write down the next phrase that occurs to him, but it doesn’t go as smoothly as he was hoping.

_The ~~snow~~ ~~skin~~ silk of your perfect skin, the rapture of your perfect touch_

He stares at the line for a long moment before crossing the whole thing out. Azuma sighs, and he starts, realizing he isn’t actually asleep.

“I’m distracting you, aren’t I,” Azuma whispers beside his ear. “I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault, my dear,” he manages, despite the undeniable tingle of arousal at Azuma’s breath on his ear.

“You are distracted, though.” He glances to the side and sees Azuma peeking up at him through his lashes, a playful little smile on his lips.

“You plan to distract me further, don’t you.” He attempts to sound put upon, but the idea is more and more welcome. Azuma’s hand slides across the silky coverlet with a faint scroop, and the corners of his mouth curl up a little further as his hand stalls at the base of Homare’s stomach.

“Would you forgive me if I did?” Azuma purrs.

“It’s too late for this poem anyway.” He gives a long-suffering sigh, closing the notebook and setting it carefully aside before turning back to gather Azuma up in both arms. “Please, console me.”

“Poor thing,” Azuma laughs, twining his arms around Homare’s neck. “Come here.”

Homare might wax poetic about Azuma’s kisses, but he truly is unbelievably good at it. Azuma kisses like every one matters as much as the first, slow and tender and brimming with passion. His lips are so soft and his tongue is so agile and he smells so good and Homare just wants to kiss him forever, except that he also wants Azuma to touch him, at this point very badly. He’s also, albeit distantly, aware that they only have so long before someone comes and knocks on his door to ask why he hasn’t come to breakfast yet.

He tosses back the covers and sits up, then pauses, frozen in wonder for a moment at the sight of Azuma lying back on his bed, his bare skin lit by the morning sun reflecting off the opposite wall. Azuma chuckles again, reaching up to trace a hand down Homare’s chest.

“Don’t stare like that, you’re embarrassing me.” He murmurs, but he looks pleased.

“I adore you,” he says helplessly, and Azuma flushes a little deeper. “I could write for a thousand years and never capture it.”

“You’re embarrassing me,” Azuma repeats, smiling, slipping a hand around the back of Homare’s neck and gently pulling. “Just come here.” He is helpless to disobey.

This soon after the first round, it takes both of them a little while to get back up to speed, but once they do, it’s wonderful. Azuma kneels straddling his lap, one slender hand working Homare’s cock with skill and care, golden eyes watching him hungrily for reactions. He isn’t ashamed of giving them, either, openly moaning and sighing for him, running his hands over the silk-smooth skin of his thighs and up to his hips and waist. Azuma drinks in his touch as always, leaning into his hands, his lips parting for breath as he takes his own length in the other hand.

_“Azuma,”_ Homare breathes, letting his eyes fall shut and tilting his head back against the pillows. “My love, my starlight, my _muse…”_

Azuma sighs hotly in response, moving his wrist a little faster, pressing his hips forward into Homare’s hands a little more. “You’re so cute,” he murmurs, and as simple as it is, it feels like a more perfect endearment for its simplicity. His mind starts to empty of words until the only things left are as simple as that; _I love you, it’s so good, you’re so good to me._ It’s almost freeing.

He climaxes at almost the same moment as he hears Azuma gasp above him, letting it out in a slow breath, trembling a little with tension. He’s always so quiet, hearing even that much feels so good. He opens his eyes slowly as Azuma sits back, breathless and a little unsteady but smiling down at him in drowsy satisfaction, and reaches for the tissuebox on the windowsill to clean their mingled release from his stomach.

He watches the reflected sunlight shift on the wall as the afterglow begins to fade, combing his fingers gently through Azuma’s hair, and Azuma hums softly in contentment. Another section of the poem has occurred to him, and he thinks about reaching out for the notebook to put it down, but Azuma is already nestled back into his arms, eyes slowly drifting closed again. Maybe… maybe it would be acceptable to go back to sleep for just a _little_ bit. He’ll probably still remember it when he wakes up.


End file.
